


The Case of the Purloined Physician

by cat_77



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, hint of John/Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-13
Updated: 2011-03-13
Packaged: 2017-10-16 22:50:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cat_77/pseuds/cat_77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is out of sight, and quite possibly about to go out of his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Purloined Physician

**Author's Note:**

> Vast amounts of thanks go to the awesome threnodyjones for her mad math skillz. Written for sherlock_flashfic’s Underground challenge.

John awoke to a faint rocking sensation, followed by a very definite thud that shook the world around him. He was already lying on the floor, so there was not much of a way to steady himself, but he tried anyway. Another shift, another creak, and finally another thud and that seemed to be that.

It was silent for long enough that he dared to move, only to find himself dizzy and light-headed. The feeling like cotton in his mouth and the tiny burst of pain in his arm told him he had likely been drugged, the effects of which were only just now beginning to wear off. He sat up anyway and let the room spin around him for a bit, blinking away the worse of it while he tried to take in his surroundings.

He appeared to be in a trailer of some sort. It looked like the kind of thing he had seen at construction sites, only the windows were covered over with sheet metal that was bolted to the walls. The door was the same, welded and bolted, which begged the question as to just how whoever it was got him in the damned thing in the first place. The entire thing was less than three metres wide by maybe seven metres in length. Large enough to pace, but small enough to feel cramped.

There was a light above him, and it was even on which meant there was a source of power, so at least there was that. To his side was a small refrigerator humming along, and beside that was a portable DVD player. There was a note taped on it with the words “Press Me” and an arrow pointing to a button painted a garish red.

He was about to do just that when the ceiling of his little abode shook. It did so again, and again, and he had the distinct feeling dirt was being piled atop it and he was being buried alive. This feeling was reinforced when what should have been the skylight, or maybe a vent, began to rain tiny particles of dirt and sand down upon him.

“Shoddy job there,” he muttered, brushing the worst of it off of him and pushing the button. He was not going to think about the earth above him, or the even more earth that was likely to every side of him. It was a game of concentration, and if he could concentrate on ignoring that, he’d be fine. Or at least that’s what he told himself.

He really wished he could have been surprised at the face that filled the screen, but instead he felt more than a bit resigned as Moriarty prattled on and on about how John was to be the latest pawn in the game against Sherlock, again, some more, for another time. He went on to explain that, yes, John was buried alive, but with the full amenities, at least until the power ran out. Moriarty calculated out the estimated amount of time that should take as though John was an imbecile, rubbing it in that, should Sherlock fail to find him in time that, yes, he was to slowly suffocate to death.

John turned it off, bored already, and decided to look around more at his prison. The fridge held bottles of water, some bread, and a jar of Marmite of all things. Everything was sealed, but that did not mean it was not poisoned, and John knew he would need to use caution or wait until he absolutely had no other options to break into the rations.

There was a mattress on the floor in the corner, replete with sheets and a fluffy pillow, and a bucket that he guessed was for the used water, as one of his commanders once called it. He could hear the hum of the power and the vibrations of layers of dirt still being poured upon him and sighed at the mess he found himself in.

He pulled out his mobile, surprised they let him keep it until he noticed there was absolutely no signal. Not that such a thing should have astounded him. He was in a metal box buried in dirt; he would have been more surprised if he could easily dial out. His arm twinged again and he looked down to find a plaster covered with ridiculous neon smiley faces on it. With another sigh at the insanity of his life, he lay down on the mattress to wait.

It was nearly four hours later when he heard the first voice. “Well, that’s boring,” the dulcet tones of his captor exclaimed. “You’re just sitting there? Where is the frantic search to break out, using up your precious oxygen until you die a sweaty, heaving wreck?”

“You added a fan and what sounds like an air compressor to the box, it might take a while,” John pointed out, not sure if Moriarty could even hear him.

“Ah, true, I did,” came the answering pout. “And no way to turn it off from here. Perhaps something to think about next time, should you get out of this?”

“Perhaps,” John agreed with a roll of his eyes. The sound was coming from just to his right. If he looked closely enough, he could see the tiny speaker embedded in the wall.

When Moriarty criticised him for his decorum, he looked for the camera, finding it near the ceiling in the corner, blending in with the rivets and support rods.

He decided to do the sensible thing and waved. Moriarty clapped his hands and enthused about his reported intelligence or some such thing, and he just blocked out the yammering as he tried to work out something far more important in his mind.

Eventually the noise stopped, likely so Moriarty could go show Sherlock that his pet had learned a new trick, and John was left to think in peace. He knew now that he was being watched and likely recorded. He knew that there was contact with the outside world, albeit extremely limited. He also knew there were at least two extra items taxing the power source, which would limit its use even further.

He got up and stretched, walking around his little prison and settling in front of the fridge. He had eaten worse things in worse conditions so he was not too concerned about that. With a shrug, he unplugged it, figuring it would be one last thing to suck up energy. He also pulled out one of the water bottles and sipped as he contemplated what else he could do.

He was surprised to find the water had not been contaminated, at least as far as he could tell. Well, at the minimum the first bottle was not. He was fairly certain there was something in the second one he opened quite some time later though as he knew he had gone without food for longer and not felt quite so ill at ease. It was possible the claustrophobic atmosphere was beginning to get to him as well though, so he really could not tell. Moriarty had checked in regularly, but just seemed to ponce about and preen and go on about his cleverness and all that. John found the word find books far more engaging anyway, at least until the words began to blur and swirl about the page.

Several hours later, he decided it was time to sleep, to conserve energy if not boredom, and pulled the pillow over his head to block out the sound of poorly sung lullabies that filled his little prison, wondering if death by paper cuts would be preferable to an encore.

He awoke to the sound of an alarm and it took him a moment to realise it was not his own. He gave the camera a two fingered salute and checked the clock on his phone to discover it was mid-morning of the second day already. His head felt clearer so either whatever was in the water was not that strong, or it really had been nothing other than exhaustion and possibly paranoia setting in. The air had an almost clammy feel to it now, and he tried not to think of CO2 build up and oxygen depletion.

His stomach growled and he gave in despite his better judgment figuring Moriarty wanted him alive, at least for now, for whatever game he was playing. It was as he spread some Marmite on a piece of bread that he got a really bad idea.

Throughout the remainder of morning and most of the afternoon, he tracked the madman’s check ins and found them to be right on schedule just like the day before. He also found the air felt more and more dense, though he could not tell if that was his imagination or just the scent of a man locked up in a cage for this long. Satisfied he had a schedule down, he went back to the word find book he had been working on, positioning himself so the actual page would not be seen by the camera, and started solving far more than spelling games.

He yawned and made a show like he was going to sleep, reaching up and tugging at the light switch, frowning when it of course did not turn off. He loosened the bulb until it grew dark and used his mobile to light the way to the bed, desperately hoping the camera did not have infrared capabilities. Moriarty sang him another infernal lullaby, so he figured nothing was too suspicious as of yet.

He waited for the first check in to make sure things remained on schedule before he made his move. A cap from a water bottle with some Marmite smeared inside and a bit of the cello tape that had held the note to the DVD player later, and the camera was sufficiently covered. He paused to listen, but found no complaint, so he screwed the light bulb back in and set to work.

He tried his best to remember Captain Jacob’s words amongst the scenes from far too many spy films, as he cannibalised pieces from both the refrigerator and DVD player. The knife worked as a cumbersome screwdriver that nicked his fingers more than once, but served its purpose and he twisted and pulled and cut and splayed until he was ready for the final pieces of what he needed.

That was, of course, when Moriarty’s voice sounded, “What are you doing, John?”

He was laying back on the bed again when he replied, “What do you think, you sick bastard? Trying to conserve energy.”

“Did you cover the camera with Marmite?” Moriarty enthused. “How quaint!”

“Yes, well, wait until you see my next trick,” John yawned. “Or hear it anyway,” he amended after a pause.

“Oh, I can’t wait,” Moriarty promised him. “You should know that Sherlock is performing admirably, really. It’s quite adorable how upset he gets every time I send him a clip of you milling about, wasting brain cells and oxygen. Of course I can’t do that now, so the audio will have to suffice. Why, he could be running around right above you and would hardly know it.”

The voice paused and John could imagine the gleeful smile on that insane face. “So you have him doing tricks for you? Jumping through hoops for your entertainment?” John guessed.

“I should really try that,” Moriarty mused. “Maybe construct some giant loop for him to run around in and through and at the end have a message for him saying it was all your idea.”

“I’m sure he’d adore it,” John agreed acerbically. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll save up some of that oxygen you have been kind enough to limit, and sleep for a bit instead of talk to you.” His head was spinning and he needed to be able to focus for his plan to work.

“Very well,” Moriarty sighed dramatically. John was half expecting another lullaby to grace his ears, but instead was rewarded with what was obviously a recording of a hushed conversation.

The words were hard to make out, but the tones and voices were quite familiar. Moriarty was mocking and Sherlock was pissy, right up until he promised, “I will end you. I will find John, and then I will find you.”

“But my dear Sherlock,” Moriarty’s voice responded, laughter lilting in his words. “Your precious John is already dead and buried.”

The recording ended suddenly, and John could only imagine Sherlock’s response to his supposed nemesis’ taunts. He knew it was supposed to demoralise him, to break his resolve and send him cascading into despair or some other cliché sooner rather than later. The only problem was that John was on to Moriarty’s plan, and had been from the start.

He waited for the next check in like clockwork, played his role as the defiant yet waning captive, and then took great pleasure in putting the finishing touches on his little project, especially when it involved prying the miniature speaker away from the wall and disconnecting his contact with the man orchestrating it all. He briefly wondered if he would miss the sound of another human voice, but decided Moriarty was not quite human and silence was preferable to his rambling.

It was nearly time for another check in, which meant Moriarty would discover his rouse soon enough. That, mixed with the feeling that his head was growing lighter while his limbs were growing heavier, told John that it was now or never. He pushed the button, and waited.

He had been dozing against the wall in the aftermath, propped on the mattress with his fluffy little pillow, when he heard it. It was more of a vibration than an actual noise, but it was there. He really and truly hoped it was not just a hallucination as he barked out a laugh, rubbing his sweaty head against the cool-warm metal.

The vibrations had changed to a definite noise, the grind of metal against metal, the scrape of something heavy against something solid. The roof above him buckled slightly, and he wondered just how much earth was about to pour in on top of him when it all stopped. There was the hollow thud like feet hitting the roof, and then a very distinct tapping.

Morse code. Of course. He could not quite translate it right now but, then again, he could barely stand long enough to tap back with the handle of the knife. He knew he had formed no actual words, but that the message should be received nonetheless.

The bright burning of the acetylene torch surprised him, and he had to turn away and cover his eyes from the sparks. A line was formed soon enough though, small and glorious and letting in a new wave of air and precious life.

There was a sound of scrambling followed by a blessedly familiar voice tinged with panic demanding, “John, are you there?”

“No, sorry, you have the wrong underground trailer. Try two doors down to the left,” he replied with a giggle of relief.

He heard Sherlock go off about oxygen depletion and CO2 poisoning and what it would cost Moriarty if John had suffered permanent brain damage. He then heard the voice of Inspector Lestrade chide, “That wasn’t kind, John.”

“Either was leaving me behind at that last scene so Moriarty’s goons could grab me, so let’s call it even, yeah?” John quipped. He wiped some of the sweat from his eyes and swore he could see his rapid pulse in the wrist held before him. Definitely suffering the effects then. Possibly CO2 poisoning, possibly claustrophobia-induced panic, and possibly drugged out of his gourd, he really could not tell.

There was a pause, perhaps too long of one, before Sherlock hesitantly said, “I’m sorry, John, I should not have done that. If I had thought...”

John cut him off before he could continue. “As much as I would like to revel in the Great Sherlock Holmes apologising, save it for later and just focus on getting me out of here for now?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Sherlock agreed.

Sherlock was pulled back and Lestrade’s voice came through again to warn, “We’re going to start cutting again. Do you have anything to protect you against the sparks?”

John shook his head and then realised they could not see him. “No, not really,” he admitted. “Just cut more towards the right and I should be able to stay away from the worst of it.”

The cutting began anew and the room was filled with bright lights and the smell of burning gas until the top was finally pulled away to sufficiently allow someone to drop through down to him. He had been expecting a medic of some sort, but he should have known better as it was Sherlock himself, ignoring the stench and the fair degree of filth, eyes desperate and searching until he found what he was looking for. “John?” he asked, as needing to verify the facts before him.

“The one and only,” John agreed from his place back on the mattress. The cool air blowing in from above was bliss, but he was still both dizzy and tired enough to not fully feel the need to move quite yet.

Sherlock looked around at the cannibalised bits of electronics and wiring, the broken refrigerator and the once useful fan, all covered in scorch marks and scratches. “You’ve been busy,” he commented.

“Yes, well, you do know how much I detest being bored,” John shrugged with a smile. He nodded at what was once a fairly decent gift from his sister and added, “I may need a new phone though.”

Sherlock strode over and pulled him to his feet, steadying him when the room seemed to tilt just a bit too much. “I believe that can be arranged. Per haps one with a tracking chip this time?” he suggested.

John shook his head. “No, he’ll just take it away completely and then what would I have to play with? And before you say it, you’re not allowed to put the chip in me either.”

Sherlock frowned, likely at being caught out. When John wavered again, even just attempting to stand still, he changed tracts though, and said, “Let’s get you out of here.”

An emergency ladder was lowered from the hole in the ceiling, and John readily climbed it, only to find Sherlock right behind and acting as though he was about to fall at any moment. This was well and good though as he tripped over himself the moment he was finally free, collapsing into one of the mounds of dirt surrounding what had been his prison. Medics rushed at him and an oxygen mask was fitted around his face and he breathed in the sterile goodness as he looked around at just where he had been kept for all these long hours.

It was, of course, in the middle of a construction project within sighting distance of where Sherlock spent a fair deal of his waking hours: Scotland Yard.

A blanket was fit about his shoulders before he could even realise he was shivering, and the medics tried to convince him to get atop a trolley, but he insisted on walking to the waiting ambulance instead. If the walk was a bit more like a stagger than anything else, wisely no one said a word. If Sherlock was by his side every time he lurched or stumbled, well, no one said a word about that either. And when there was a small explosion nearly forty minutes later at the precise deadline given by a certain madman, causing the little hole to fill with dirt and debris and hiding John’s ingenious communication device before Lestrade and his team could fully retrieve it, well, that was mentioned quite a bit, actually.

Three days later, safely ensconced back at 221 B Baker Street with every window wide open despite the slight chill in the air, John sat at the kitchen table trying to figure out his new mobile over the never-ending stream of tea and biscuits provided by Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock sat off to the side, supposedly reading the paper but his eyes really never seemed focused on the page at all. “Did you know they are working with new technology that allows a device such as a miniature computer or even a mobile to connect directly with the human body? It uses a chip embedded beneath the skin and Bluetooth technology to interact-”

“The answer is no, Sherlock,” John cut him off, not looking up from his task. He had most of the contacts programmed in now, but was trying to set the wallpaper to something other than sheet metal grey of the default. As an afterthought, he added, “And please remember that unauthorised surgery is still considered a crime.”

Sherlock huffed and frowned and pretended to go back to reading. John settled for an abstract blue pattern which in no way reminded him of the burn of acetylene or the glimpse of bright sky behind corrugated metal and made a mental note to both tape a bell to his bedroom door and to not fall asleep in the lounge any time soon.

He smiled to himself as he reached for another biscuit. Things were not back to normal, not yet, but he was free, Sherlock was hovering and scheming, and Moriarty was off sulking somewhere, and that was quite alright with him. And the biscuits were quite divine as well.


End file.
